


hitoka

by myefflorescence



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Artist!Kuroo, Bad Ending, Based on a Vocaloid Song, Character Study, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Instability, References to Depression, Romance, Song Lyrics, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myefflorescence/pseuds/myefflorescence
Summary: on this canvas of deception,i will paint all of my feelings.- leia, megurine luka. // 24.03.20
Relationships: Kuroo Testurou & Yachi Hitoka, Kuroo Tetsurou/Yachi Hitoka
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	hitoka

_Let me hear your voice within’ the darkness_

_Make this sinking heart fade into nothing_

_On this empty canvas of deception_

_I will paint all of my feelings. . ._

* * *

Her name is Hitoka.

Kuroo isn’t quite sure what really attracts him to her in the first place. He has a lifestyle that he conforms to – something that doesn’t leave him too much spare time to chase skirts like his peers do, like they say he should. Most of the times, he swerves the conversation away by acknowledging that fact, prompting them to launch into their own tales of experiences as a way of giving him advices; some other times, he simply resigns to their shenanigans and lets them say whatever they please, drowns that nonsense out with someone’s horrible off-tune karaoke singing and a shot of whatever he’s feeling that day, whiskey or vodka. He doesn’t have the best tolerance but he likes the burn that washes down his throat and washes away the taste of apathy, indifference, _taedium vitae._

It’s not that he doesn’t know how to have fun. On the contrary, Kuroo is well aware of his charms and the effect they have on certain groups of people – he doesn’t like to pat himself on the shoulders, but it would be blatant lying to say that he isn’t attractive on the eyes, that he doesn’t have a boisterous personality or a few tricks up his sleeve that are sure to get the party going. It’s just that he feels like his maturity has grown ahead of his age and now he’s stuck inside a vessel that is meant to do all the things he doesn’t quite enjoy doing as much as he used to, things like partying or seeing someone else. He’s done that before, going on dates and being in a relationship – but for whatever reason, they never really worked out in the long run. Apparently he sucks at time management and balancing multiple duties at once: student duties, captain duties, boyfriend duties; university and volleyball and social life all get into the way and he can’t have two without sacrificing the other, or all three without giving up his personal space, so when he actually does – is it too much to yearn for someone who’s willing to just be with him the way he is, grant him that platonic affection his heart longs for instead of requiring him to screw them senseless in every waking hour? He’s already screwing himself up enough as it is.

Eventually he gives up, because it’s hard to find someone who’s real and genuine and not in it for his looks, his reputation or perhaps just a mean to get something beneficial on their part. He has Kenma, who seems indifferent but it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s that he _knows_ Kuroo doesn’t care himself; and then there’s Bokuto, who he can rely on for hauling his ass back home safely on the days he loses all rationality to get butt wasted, who’s nice enough to take his shoes off for him before he passes out on the bed.

None of them has said it out loud before, but he knows they think he’s changed.

And he hasn’t, really, _truthfully_ , he hasn’t. Or perhaps he did – he’s way past the point of caring to figure out what is and what isn’t anymore, but Kuroo likes to think that he’s still that same old Tetsurou who sounds like a grandpa to his underclassmen and serves as a strong, reliable captain to his teammates, only _tired_.

He met Hitoka on a cold summer evening, when his only companions were the silver moon that mocked him with its merry fullness and the chilly breezes that barely tickled his skin, because it was cold outside but even colder in his intoxicated heart, where the fire of passion for sports and victory could no longer ignite. It was cold outside but she was wearing this black sundress that caught his attention right away, made her look like an absolute angel even without wings.

And then, he understood why he was so attracted to her in the first place:

She took the mono out of his monotonous life, and made it _colorful_.

* * *

Hitoka is everything he has ever dreamt of and more – fanciful, surreal. She takes away the pain and trouble and makes it easier for him to breathe in this suffocating world, where all that is expected from him is precision, perfection, integrity, _perfection_. The talons are wrapped around his neck in a vice-like choke and he has long forgotten the taste of liberty until she freed him from them, replacing the marks with faint traces of her sweet existence, covering it up in the silkiest ribbons. Hitoka listens to his anxiety quietly and without a single word of complaint; she never told him but he thinks it’s because she has been through the same, never quite really outgrew it – the strain of expectations and pressure, the strife to live up to a reputation that haunts them in their waking hours. Still, when she holds him close and he can trace the smell of fading paint on her, of flowers and peacefulness, he is in heaven.

She is his remedy. His clarity. His _oasis_ and he allows her that power, allows himself to fall into her embrace, her warmth and lets her scent washes his dilemmas away, veiling him in her sanctuary.

_Save me before I can’t be saved._

For her, he makes time. Classes pass by like a blur and so do trainings when he thinks of her – Hitoka, his Hitoka, all alone waiting for him to come home. His teammates tease him about it, calling him “whipped” and “hooked” and he lets them slide, sends a wolfish grin their way before leaving because he is all of those things and more for her, hopelessly romantic. Bokuto plays mad at him for not introducing the ace to “Hitoka-chan,” abandoning their night outs for “Hitoka-chan” but Kuroo can only smile apologetically and promise to make it up on an occasion that never arrives. Kenma knows all about her and doesn’t speak a word, though Kuroo catches his best friend looking at him with an odd gaze sometimes, confusion clear in the sharpness of his eyes.

Of course they don’t understand.

They don’t understand that whenever he comes home, he comes home to that smile – the smile that relieves him off of whatever misery he bears, of the boredom plaguing his life in streaks of black and white; lifts his spirits and makes him fall in love with her all over again, warm and welcoming. They don’t understand the privilege of owning an angel like her, how exhilarating it is to be surrounded by her loving presence, bathe in her serenity – this ardor that intoxicates him far more viciously than the alcohol he breathes. The time spent with her feels like the time that never exists on a clock, shutting the hectic world outside and granting him a blissful moment in this alternate reality, makes it worthwhile to _live_.

It’s ridiculous how transparent the world has become under his drunken gaze, filled with nothing but an empty, lifeless gray that smears its blight all over his presence, dragging down onto his future.

And yet, in her, he sees the colors.

He is obsessed with the golden threads of her hair, fixated on the delicate way they glide under his hand, trail around his fingers like silk and satin. He is infatuated with the soft skin of her face, her hands, pale as a paper, so easily tainted that he had to be careful around her all the times, making sure he leaves no marks behind. Her voice is gentle and shy, a bit demure in her nature, so faint that he cannot hear her sometimes – it is the only flaw she possesses, but even then he is willing to forgive as long as she continues looking at him with those amber eyes, doe and wide and void of the impurities this world is plagued of; continues smiling at him with her beaming radiance, dimpled cheek and rosy hues. That black sundress she met him in is her favorite to wear and his favorite to see on her, satin ebony veiling her fragile silhouette, thin straps wrapped over dainty clavicle. It accentuates the paleness of her skin and makes her look ethereal, entirely out of this world – out of his reach, out of his reality. Occasionally, he has to seek out her warmth as way of reassurance that she’s here, real and supple in his embrace, a never-ending fantasy that he longs for.

Kuroo likes getting her flowers and the fact that they go so well with them only fuels him to do it more: he adores the sunflowers that remind him of her aurelian hair, the daisies that represent her untainted innocence, the roses that are a declaration of his burning, bleeding, drunken love for her – his beautiful, beautiful Hitoka.

* * *

Eventually, after countless of shameless excuses that lead to nowhere, Bokuto stops asking him to go out and starts asking him what’s wrong instead.

So does Kenma.

He meets them less and less often these days, sometimes at practice, sometimes in class, but the truth remains that his presence is getting fainter with every beat his heart takes, every second he spends beside Hitoka. Somewhere deep down, he knows it’s not their faults to blame that they’re so worried over his wellbeing: the guilt is eating away at his conscience to reassure them that he’s fine, he’s alright, he just wants to spend some time for Hitoka, makes up for the mistakes he’s done in previous relationships, that simple. Still, they continue to ask, bombarding him with questions he doesn’t even have the answers to, telling him to leave her and go out with them, fix his hair and shave off the stubbles that’ve come to grow on his face, have a proper sleep, Kuroo, _please_ – but all he can manage to mutter is that he doesn’t care, he really doesn’t, at least not anymore.

He understands where they’re coming from, though, having caught a sight of himself in the mirror before it is covered up, disheveled and exhausted, but Hitoka hasn’t complained a word and that’s all that matters to him – the fact that she doesn’t mind.

She doesn’t mind it when he nuzzles into the crook of her neck, stubbles and all. She doesn’t mind the sharp spikes of his hair prickling into her skin, the way his grip on her tightens like a vice that threatens to rip her skin out, how desperate he holds her against himself. Though he would never hurt her on purpose, he wishes she would have cared – even if it’s by a fragment, even if it’s just for a short while, he wishes she would quit indulging him like this, quit smiling at him like that and just snap at him with her honey voice, tell him to get his life together.

The nightmare is endless but he doesn’t want to wake up, yearns to continue living in this despair.

* * *

Hitoka continues to smile through his pain and misery and it makes him sick.

He can’t quite recall if he has ever raised his voice at her before but he sure is hanging on the last strings of fragile sanity now, yelling and screaming at her to _wake up, Hitoka_ , _please_ , _say something_ , _anything_ to let him know that she’s alive and breathing and not what he sees her as – bare, lifeless. He doesn’t understand why it is that even as his knees drop to the floor and he’s groveling, begging at her feet, ears pressed against her chest, he does not find a beating heart there. He can’t comprehend why it is that he doesn’t feel the blood coursing through her veins, why she’s always smiling, beaming, radiant like that.

This reality, this fantasy – he refuses to acknowledge, he doesn’t want to see it.

So he doesn’t.

The process is painful but at the very least he doesn’t have to worry about seeing her eternal smile anymore, about the way her colors flake off time after time, fresh ones layered over the dull and broken. He can’t see her anymore but her image is imprinted into his mind so hard that he can feel the sorrow crawling deep within’ his skin, spilling bloodily on her own that he has tried so hard to keep clean. He hears her voice somewhere – faint, barely audible, grows in volume and starts screaming fruitless hope that makes absolutely zero sense to him because it hadn’t come when he needed it the most, so it doesn’t matter anymore.

Still, he feels the canvas under his fingertips, smells the fresh paint on her skin that’s driving him insane because that’s not how she’s supposed to be; he wants– no, he needs to know that she’s real, God, _please_ , _Hitoka, laugh for me, pray for me, I’ve already gone this far._

Hitoka, he cries. Hitoka, he laughs. Hitoka, he begs.

Still, she does not hear him.

 _Hitoka_ , he gives up. _Kill me, Hitoka._

_“I can’t. I have to go home, Hitoka-chan is–“_

_“Hitoka-chan…?”_

_“I love her.”_

_“She’s not real, Kuroo, she’s not–“_

_“What are you talking about? Of course she is.”_

_“Kuroo, bro, stop, **STOP** , Hitoka-chan, she’s a DRAWING.”_

Ah, it’s all so clear now.

He sketched her on a drunken summer night, on a blank canvas with a mechanic pencil. He outlined her and painted her and made her his greatest masterpiece, filled her with his favorite colors and his unanswered prayers; gave her the prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile, flowers that never wilted. In her, he poured his reality. In her, he found love.

But she’s real – Hitoka is so, very much real, he knows because he has lived with her all this time, talked to her and embraced her and he still remembers the way her hair glides under his hand even though he can no longer see it, the way rough paper feels beneath his fingertips. He loves her, why won’t everyone just open their eyes and see it?

Oh, that’s right.

Proof is what they need, proof is what he’ll give.

Hitoka is beautiful as he holds her one last time, paper-white skin and amber eyes, her little black dress. Hitoka is beautiful even as his ashes stain her, even while burning up in flames.

With her, he leaves the colors.


End file.
